Archive of Our Own ^beta

Leonard McCoy never meant to get as attached as he did to James Kirk. 

He never meant to befriend him, to become his best friend, to become his (occasional) roommate-- during their first year at the academy when Jim’s own roommate was being a colossal ass and locked him out-- and he certainly never meant to become attuned to the nuances and oddities that comprised the younger man. 

But he had.

He knew from months of constant companionship with the younger man that Kirk had his quirks. 

For starters, the kid was more than content to sleep on the floor in full cadet reds, boots and all. He wouldn’t if a more comfortable opportunity presented itself, but on the rare occasions that he had slipped off at McCoy’s single dorm, he seemed to have no trouble at all falling asleep in full garb.

He ate on a strict schedule. Every day Jim had breakfast at 6:30AM-- after his morning run but prior to attending classes-- lunch at 12 sharp, and dinner at 5:30. He would occasionally snack in-between, but it was very important to him that eat at those times... or as close to as possible. If he didn’t, he became quiet and-- McCoy would almost say-- anxious. He’d fidget and slowly shut down. Len had only ever seen it happen once or twice, but both times were enough to make him worry, so he tried to stick to Jim’s schedule as best as he could.

And those were just a few of the odd behaviors that comprised James T. Kirk. For all of his showboating, the kid was surprisingly insecure-- practically desperate not to upset McCoy. He didn’t seem scared per se, but Len couldn’t help but wonder about the moments when the blond would smile a little too wide, laugh a little too loudly, turn his statements into questions, the uplift of his inflection treading carefully as he awaited a reaction. These behaviors grew less frequent as they got to know each other, but Len caught them when they happened, just the same.

Somewhere during the months of classes, companionship, and the occasional close quarters-- courtesy of Jim’s sorry excuse for a roommate-- Jim had become Len’s best friend. He trusted the kid with his life, had seen him do some truly amazing things, both in class-- he really was remarkably intelligent-- and out. It seemed there was nothing he wouldn’t try at least once, and he had a good heart. Len truly enjoyed every moment he spent with the younger man, something that couldn’t be said about many other people on the planet... or off.

Through their myriad of daily interactions, Len had learned how to live with the kid, and he had a pretty good grasp on how to handle James T. Kirk. He knew when to ask questions, when to banter and offer-- as his mama called it-- “tough love”: well-intended slaps upside the head and just enough beratement to keep Jim in line when he pulled some stupid stunt. 

And he knew when to let something go and change the subject.

He wasn’t stupid. A background in medical training was more than enough to tell him that his friend hadn’t grown up all sunshine and daisies. The kid had a temper, but knew (mostly) when to keep his mouth shut. He was fiercely protective of the underdog and anyone younger than him. He was reckless to a fault, and had an insanely high pain tolerance. More than once, Len had seen the flash of white, raised skin somewhere on Kirk’s arm... or back... or side. He knew scars when he saw them.

Len had brought it up once, casually. 

They had arranged to meet at his dorm for a drink to celebrate the end of the semester, and Jim had been running a few minutes behind. Cramming 4 years of coursework into 3 meant extra classes, extra coursework, and extra testing, and finals season had turned into a labyrinth of scheduling for his friend, meticulously planned and organized down to the minute to ensure he was on time for each exam.

The pounding of feet in the hallway alerted him to Jim’s presence as his friend scrambled to keep up with his own hectic schedule. Len rose from his seat on the couch to grab the drinks, knowing that Jim would let himself in; they were long past knocking at that point. He was proven right moments later as the door opened and Jim lurched into the room.

“Sorry,” he panted, “sorry. Test ran over, extra credit section--”

“‘S’all good.” Len called over his shoulder. “Take a seat.”  He grabbed a few beers and returning to the living area just in time to see Jim take off his shoes. As he bent to undo the laces of his runners, his shirt rode up, giving Len a clear view of a thick scar across his lower back. The scar was raised and gnarled, several inches long with several smaller scars littering the skin around it.

“How’d you get that?” Len asked, holding out a beer to his friend and raising one finger off the bottle to point absently at the now mark. 

Jim eyed the beer and shook his head, declining the drink.

“Get what?” he asked, following Len to the seating and falling into an armchair gracelessly, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the chair, slumping in relaxation for the first time in weeks.

Len took a swig of his drink, setting the other, unwanted bottle on the floor beside his chair. “Scar on your back,” he clarified, tipping his chin towards Jim.

The silence stretched on just a moment too long. A glance told Len that Jim was no longer relaxed. Though he hadn’t moved, his jaw was clenched tightly. His hands sporadically tightened on the armrests of the chair. He had gone almost rigidly still.

After a long pause, he tried again. “Jim?”

The whispered reply caught him off guard. “It’s fine, Bones, don’t worry about it.” 

He didn't sound angry or upset. If anything he sounded tired. Len could push a bit further.

“Didn’t ask if it was fine, asked how you got it,” he groused, amusement in his tone, hoping he could get Jim to open up about this as long as he kept it relatively light. “You know a dermal regenerator could have fixed that right up? No scar, no problem. Why didn’t you see a doctor about that?” 

Once again, the silence stretched just too long.

“I don’t like beer,” Jim finally said, not meeting Len’s eye. “Do you have anything else?” 

And just like that, McCoy knew to drop it. Jim’s gaze was flat... resigned even, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking for all the world like he was preparing to run if he had to. This was something Len had never seen, and he knew that if Jim did leave, there was no guarantee that he'd be able to fix---whatever this was that he’d created with what he’d thought had been an innocent question. He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Jim.

“Sure thing, kid. You know where it’s at, help yourself.” 

A tiny quirk of the lips let him know this had been the right answer, and as Jim rummaged through his kitchen Len called out, “So how’d your exam go?”

He made a mental note that Jim didn’t like beer, and spent the rest of the evening steering clear of heavy topics and prying questions.

Of course, this interaction plagued him for weeks. He turned it over and over in his mind wondering why his friend didn’t want to talk about the scar, why he had it in the first place, and why he’d never seen a doctor for it. He thought about that one a lot.

There had been many instances in their short friendship in which Jim should probably have seen a doctor, but had declined. Hell, he even refused to let McCoy treat him. If Len did catch a glimpse of anything heftier than a scrape or bruise, he kicked into gear and-- more often than not-- manhandled the kid into sitting down and letting him take a look; but as of yet there had been nothing life threatening and Jim talked his way out of treatment more often than not. He’d push past McCoy and slap a bandage on it if necessary or walk it off it not, usually with a: “Would you calm down now? See, it’s fine.”

This tried and true method of avoidance and deflection, in true Kirk fashion, came to a screeching halt in the most dramatic way possible.

 Len received a call one evening from Starfleet Medical informing him that he was listed as Mr. James T. Kirk’s emergency contact, and that there had been an accident. Jim was fine, but apparently as he had been rounding a corner with a classmate another student had come racing around the corner and barreled into them. In trying to keep the girl he was walking with from falling, Jim had reached out to catch her as she fell back into him, but the momentum had thrown him off balance and he had gone down hard. Mild concussion and a broken wrist, but enough to require treatment.

Shocked that he was listed at all, and even more shocked that they were contacting him for something so trivial, Len grumbled, “If the injuries are so mild, you mind telling me why you’re calling his emergency contact?”

“Mr. Kirk is refusing treatment, and grew agitated and hostile towards staff. He lashed out violently and we were forced to sedate him to prevent him from inflicting further harm to himself or others.” Here they paused, and Len felt his stomach clench in worry. “Unfortunately, Mr. Kirk had an allergic reaction to the sedative used. We were able to counteract the allergy, but from what we can tell, he doesn’t seem to want any doct--”

McCoy had already snapped his comm. shut and was out the door. That idiot… that absolute idiot! Why on earth would he lash out at his doctors like that? Surely he knew they were only trying to help. And those doctors-- those idiots, didn’t they check his history before giving him any medication? 

He made his way quickly to Starfleet Medical, inquiring briefly as to Jim’s location at the front desk, throwing passing greetings at his co-workers over his shoulder as he made his way quickly to the room they had Jim in. He had been admitted following his injury- Jesus- and sedation -H.- and reaction to the sedation-Christ- and was being treated for his injuries. He would be ready for release as soon as the regenerator repaired his broken bone and the sedative wore off.

He knocked gently on the door as he opened it, and his heart sank as he took in the sight before him. Jim was lying on the hospital bed, stripped to his undershirt and pants. His shoes, jacket, and blacks were on the chair nearby, just out of reach. Not that it mattered…

He was strapped to the bed.

His right wrist was held fast, pinned tightly by the restraint, even as he randomly clenched and unclenched his fist, twisting his wrist nervously as he fought the sedative and tried to break free. His ankles were strapped down as well, and his left wrist-- clearly the one he had broken-- was held inside a regenerator by a metal cuff around his forearm. He was staring at the ceiling, breathing slowly in and out through his nose as he clenched his jaw. Each breath fogged up the oxygen mask they had placed on him to raise his O2 levels after the allergic reaction. At first glance, he looked livid, but Len knew him better than that. Jim was terrified. That much was clear. What he didn’t understand was why.

“Jim?” Len moved forward, hands itching to remove the restraints, to get Jim out of there, to ease his pain-- but he was a doctor first and foremost, and the regen machine had to finish its work first.

Jim didn’t look at him. He stayed staring at the ceiling. Len knew that Jim had heard him-- his breathing faltered ever so slightly when he called his name. He swallowed heavily as McCoy moved closer, taking a deep breath and saying, “Bones… when can I get out of here?”

 Lucid, then. Coherent, alert, aware... but still so damn scared, if the slight shaking in his good hand was any indication. To hell with protocol. Len began removing the ankle restraints.

“Soon, kid, real soon. Soon as that machine finishes its job, we’ll go, ok?” Jim nodded, nostrils flaring with each breath. In. Out. “I uh- I hear you put up a hell of a fight. Mind telling me what that’s all about?” He moved to the strap on Jim’s right wrist.

Jim snorted a breathy, cynical laugh. “I don’t like doctors.”

Understatement of the year, Len thought. But he knew better than to say so. Instead, removing the restraint and helping Jim sit up, he said, “Ouch, kid, you do know who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

Jim wouldn’t meet his eyes. Lifting his good hand, he dragged it down his face, catching the oxygen mask as he went and pulling it down so it hung loosely around his neck. Without the mask, his bloodshot eyes and the shadows of his face seemed much more stark. He was at his limit, that was clear.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I just… I freaked out and I overreacted and I didn’t mean to but then they were just--”

“Hey, woah, take it easy,” Len said, hearing the panic creeping into his friend’s voice. “It’s alright. I don’t think anyone’s going to hold it against you. I’ll tell you a secret,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I don’t like a lot of these doctors, either.” 

Jim huffed a laugh, which quickly turned into a cough, and he grimaced as it irritated his swollen throat. Len guided the oxygen mask back onto his face, pushing away his hand as Jim fought him. “Stop it, kid. Just a few more minutes of this. Your body is still recovering from an allergic reaction.”

Jim was exhausted. He quickly gave up and leaned back against the pillows behind him, staring at his arm in the regenerator. Len glanced at the timer on the side. Another 4 minutes and it would be done healing him, and-- Lord willing-- he’d be able to talk his way into getting Jim released without a psych consultation.

Jim still wouldn’t meet his eye. They sat in tense silence until the machine finished it’s work. A nurse was alerted, and the doctor treating Jim came in to check his progress and release his arm from the cuff holding it in the regenerator. Jim tensed like an angry cat when the man entered the room, shoulders raised and body tense: fight or flight at its peak.

The man fumbled through some explanations-- excuses-- and after a few horribly awkward moments, agreed to transfer care to Doctor McCoy and allow Jim’s release under his supervision.

Len left Jim to put on his shoes and jacket, signed him out, and the two began their walk back the dorms, McCoy armed with a few hyposprays just in case Jim had any delayed reactions to the sedation or lingering pain in his arm. Jim tried to veer off and head to his own dorm, but Len shut that down and led him reluctantly on.

Jim had never looked so uncomfortable around Len before. He hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched and head bowed slightly, as if waiting for instruction. This place was practically his dorm, too, and he had never behaved as if he believed any different. It was this that told Len that they were in completely uncharted territory.

Instinct told him that the best course of action would be to continue as if nothing had happened-- while still being sure to address what needed to be dealt with and ensuring that if there were any lingering aftereffects of the sedative and allergic reaction, he was informed and could deal with it as needed. So he looked Jim up and down, raised one eyebrow and said, “You gonna sit down, or what?”

Jim sighed heavily, deflating, and said, “So how is this going to work?”

Caught off guard, Len replied, “How is what going to work, sitting? You walk over here, and you pick a chair and--”

“Are you my doctor now, or what?” Jim interrupted, meeting Len’s gaze with a glare, uncertain and tired. 

Ah, so that was it.

“No,” Len said, never breaking eye contact with Jim. “I’m not ‘your doctor’ now. I’m your friend and your emergency contact, so I’m going to make sure that there aren’t any side effects from whatever those idiots pumped you full of, and then we’re going to carry on as always: you do something stupid and I let you sleep on my couch.”

Jim seemed to relax at this. “Ok,” he said, making a tentative move forward into the room.

“But can you do me a favor?” Len asked. Jim looked at him warily and nodded. “Please remember that I am a doctor, and if you get hurt again, find me? Better for everyone involved if we don’t repeat today, don’t you think?” Jim looked ready to protest. “I’m not saying ‘let me be your doctor’ and I’m not saying you have to come running to tell me every time you get a scrape and bruise. I know you don’t like doctors, and I won’t ask you why. That’s not my business unless you want it to be. But don’t you think it might be a little easier to handle if… well, if it’s me?”

Jim pulled a hand through his hair. “I don’t--” he broke off with a sigh. “I don’t know, Bones, it’s… it’s not that simple.”

“Fair enough, kid.” Len replied. “But can you at least try?” 

Jim took a deep breath and nodded sharply, once. 

“That’s all I’m asking,” Len said with a nod of his own. “Now would you please sit down?”

Thankfully, there weren’t any lingering effects from the medication they’d given Jim. And a few days later, when Len was on shift at Starfleet Medical and snuck a glance at Jim’s file, there wasn’t any call for a psych referral, either. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything. The only thing of note was the word “classified”, over and over and over again. From the age of 10 up, Jim’s entire file was classified, aside from basic entries stating he had taken (and passed) the physical and mental aptitude testing necessary for enrollment in Starfleet.

What on earth?

It was at that moment that he was paged and reluctantly he returned the file and went back to work.

Months passed and there were no major incidents to speak of. Things returned to normal quickly between McCoy and Jim, and they fell into their usual rapport easily. Their first year ended and the summer term began. Jim took classes to ensure he stayed on track with his 3 year plan, and Len picked up extra shifts at Starfleet Medical to earn some extra income in the downtime. The two requested shared housing, since by the end of term Jim spent every night sleeping on Len’s couch anyway, and had moved into a slightly larger shared dorm.

One evening, Len had the night off and was reviewing his course list for the upcoming fall term in his room when there was a knock on his door. He glanced at the time, noting it was only around 6 o’clock. Jim had said he would be out late working on a project for an engineering course, so what was he doing home so early? Len opened the door.

Jim was standing there, tense and anxious, clutching his right hand against his chest and cradling it protectively with his other hand. Through the gaps of his fingers, McCoy could see burned and blistered skin, obviously painful.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Accident with the thrusters on the replica assignment,” Jim said, smirking sheepishly. Len could see his nervousness through the bravado, and turned to grab his med kit from the shelf, gesturing for Jim to lead the way to the living area where there was more space.

“Well,” he said, keeping his voice casual and light, “It doesn’t look too bad. Let’s take a look.”

Jim took a seat on the couch and McCoy pulled the armchair closer, sitting right in front of Jim and resting his kit on the floor by their feet. Jim had taken the first step: he had come to Len for help. With an upward quirk of the lip, Len held out his hand, palm up, asking Jim’s permission to see the injury. Jim looked surprised and a bit wary, but slowly extended the arm, putting his hand in easy reach for McCoy.

Gently, McCoy took the hand in his and reached into the med kit. “I’m nervous to give you a painkiller because of… last time,” he avoided an explicit reminder of what had happened when last Jim had been given medical attention. “But I can definitely put some salve on it and bandage it. With a little regen time, should be good as new by tomorrow. What do you say?”

Jim again looked shocked that McCoy seemed to be asking him what he wanted, and a niggling suspicion formed in Len’s mind. He didn’t like it one bit. He let the silence stretch on a bit longer before saying, “That ok with you, Jim?”

Snapping out of his daze, Jim said, “Oh, uh, yeah… yeah, that’s… that’d be good.”

“Well, alright then.” Len set to work, all the while asking Jim his permission to touch, to treat, to heal. It took only a few minutes to get him settled with a portable regenerator, and in no time the hand was mended, and Jim, though tense, was none the worse for wear.

“Good as new,” Len announced as he moved the regenerator away and Jim flexed his healed hand a few times, the new skin stretching and tender, but no longer painful.

“Thanks, Bones,” he said quietly.

“No problem, kid,” he replied. “Now, was that so bad?”

From then on, Jim came to McCoy with injuries. The first several times were similar to the first. He was hesitant and tense, surprised by the gentleness and care the Len employed, and by the constant requests for his permission.

After a while, it was no longer awkward, and Jim came to him freely when needed. It wasn’t often, but it was often enough, and McCoy was glad his friend trusted him to treat him rather than to endure unnecessary pain rather than seek treatment, or worse, to have a repeat of that night in the hospital. He became accustomed to Jim’s allergies, familiar with Jim’s scars, and even with the stories behind some of them.

One day, he caught sight of a scar on Jim’s foot where it was propped on the edge of the couch, and Jim had caught him glancing at it. 

“Stepped on some glass as a kid,” he had said.

“Ouch,” Len replied. “Didn’t anyone ever take a look at it?” They’d been here before. This was dangerous ground, but maybe things were different enough now.

Jim shrugged, eyes becoming slightly glazed over as he smirked darkly. “Wouldn’t take me,” he said.

Stomach churning, Len pressed on. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Stepdad,” Jim said nonchalantly. “Told me to clean it up and threw another one at me.”

“Threw another---?”

“Bottle,” Jim answered. “He drank a lot. Beer. It was cheap. It hit the wall and kind of-- exploded, I guess. I slipped, and sort of landed on it. Cut my back pretty bad, but I bandaged it up ok.”

Len was appalled. “Christ, kid---”

“Not a huge fan of beer,” Jim said, his smile tight, and that was Len’s cue to drop it. Fighting back the urge to ask more, to know more, to help his friend though the damage was long past, he let it go. And he stopped buying beer.

Stories kept coming out like that. As the trust grew, Jim let him in on more of his past. When Jim showed up with a bruised rib from a combat class, he was quick to inform Len not to worry, because it wasn’t broken. Jim knew because his stepfather had broken two of his ribs once for waking him up. When he sprained an ankle running, he told Len he didn’t need help wrapping it, he’d done it before. Frank had pushed him down the last few stairs once, and it had done the same thing.

Sadly, Len wasn’t all too surprised to find out that his friend had been abused. Several things suddenly made more sense, actually. How quiet Jim could be when he wanted, his fierce protective streak for those he perceived as defenseless or helpless, his pain tolerance. 

But his dislike of doctors wasn’t one of them. 

It seemed that Frank never took him to the doctor for any of his injuries. Len would understand if Jim despised doctors because he related them to the abuse somehow, but that wasn’t the case, so what was it? The question lingered in his mind.

Eventually, he wasn’t surprised when Jim showed up with some injury or other, and began mixing in his usual trademarked gruffness with his treatment, though he made sure to ask Jim’s permission as often as possible right up until Jim, smirking widely, said, “You know, Bones, I’m not going to break.” That was his signal that they were ok; Jim trusted him, and the tiptoeing wasn’t necessary any longer.

He was surprised, though, nearly a year and a half later, when he received a notice from Jim’s advisor, Captain Pike, saying that Jim had requested Len as his attending physician and that should he accept, all medical history and records would be made available to him as Jim’s primary. This was a whole new situation. Jim trusted him enough to let him in on all the secrets, every recorded injury, every illness, every allergy, every single one of the documents marked “classified”, hidden away except from the very height of the Starfleet Admiralty.

He quickly commed Jim a text message, to be sure this was what his friend wanted. The answer was short and simple: “I trust you, Bones.”

That was all the assurance he needed. Len confirmed his acceptance, and opened the first classified file.

The abuse was expected. The extent was not. 

Years of brutality, abandoned by his mother, then his brother, left with a drunk who grew increasingly violent. Injuries recorded years after their infliction, past the ability to treat the scars, to heal the pain. When he read about 13 year old Jim driving a classic vehicle off a cliff and nearly going with it, he was sure his heart almost stopped. Setting down the PADD, reminding himself that Jim was fine, alive and uninjured, he poured himself a drink and taking a sip, opened the next file.

The bourbon splattered the screen as he choked and sputtered, hacking coughs as he tried to force air back into his lungs, sure he had misread.

Tarsus IV.

Tarsus? Jim had been on Tarsus? Christ…

He forced himself to go on. He read about the famine, the rebellion, the children who escaped, led by a “J.T.” whose description matched perfectly his vision of a younger James Kirk. He read about the torture, the state they found him in, how he was starved to the point of emaciation and beaten so severely they weren’t sure he’d recover given his weakened state.

And he read about how the doctors on hand, young and inexperienced, with limited resources in the depth of space and ill-equipped to handle the sole survivors of a massacre treated Jim. How they sedated him and strapped him down, even as he screamed for “his kids”. How they nasogastrically intubated him and forced food into his system even as his body rebelled against too much, too soon, and he retched and fought until they sedated him again and did it anyway. How they kept him that way all the way back to earth, sedated and alone and frightened and… just a child.

And then Len was retching. As he spat bourbon and bile into his trash can, he thought of Jim, strapped down in that hospital bed months ago, oxygen mask fogging with shaky breaths, trying to explain with words that wouldn’t come:

“I don’t like doctors.”

But Jim trusted him. Jim had befriended him, lived with him, shared his stories, his past, his pain as his friend. And now he had chosen him to be his doctor, trusted him with his well being and care. Well, Len sure as hell wasn’t going to let him down in either respect. Not if he could help it.

So when Jim went in for the Kobayashi Maru not once, not twice, but three times, Len went with him each time, because that’s what friends do.

And when Jim is called up before the admiralty, charged with cheating, Len is there supporting him, because that’s what friends do.

And when the distress call comes in from Vulcan, and Jim is going to be left behind, Len decides that it’s time to prove that your doctor and your best friend can be the same thing.

All their years of friendship and building trust had built to this moment.

Jim doesn’t question him when he tells him to come with him, except to ask where they were going.

He doesn’t question him when he tells him to sit down, or when he tells him he’s going to give him an injection.

Len explains the symptoms that will follow. Jim doesn’t panic when the symptoms set in. He doesn’t question Len’s decision. He stays quiet, letting Len support him as he confidently rattles off to the boarding assistant, “Medical code states, ‘The treatment and transport of a patient is to be determined at the discretion of his attending physician’ - which is me! - so I'm taking Mr. Kirk aboard, or would you like to explain to Captain Pike why the Enterprise warped into a crisis without one of its senior medical officers?”

Jim stays quiet, and Len thanks his lucky stars that the kid trusts him enough to let him do all this, because it ends up saving all of their lives.

Weeks later, when all is said and done, and the ceremonies have been held and accolades given out, in one of the rare quiet moments since Vulcan was lost, Len receives the official position of CMO on the USS Enterprise under Captain James T. Kirk, should he accept.

He accepts right away, no question in his mind, and Jim comms him immediately after.

“Thought you said space was ‘disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence?’” Jim says, amusement coloring his tone.

“The things I do for you, kid… God help me,” Len replies, equally amused.

“Bones?” Jim says, and his tone has shifted. There is a sincerity to it that touches Len.

“Yeah, kid?”

“I’m really glad you’re my doctor.”

Len smiles. “Me too, kid.”

“Bones?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Don’t ever give me Melvaren mud fleas again.”

“Me? How ‘bout you never give me a reason to again?”

Jim laughs. “Deal.”